Archive of Our Own

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Neal knew this had been a bad idea by the time he got to the Manhattan docks. When he'd left his loft earlier today, the wind had just started to kick up, whipping his hair into his eyes in strong gusts. He'd drawn his suede jacket around his body and braved the weather.

Public transport had been shut down for hours now, and waiting for one of the taxis that was still operating had taken a while.

He knew he was cutting it awfully close with the evacuation deadline looming over Manhattan. He'd agreed to stay at June's mansion, keep an eye on things while she was away. The house was in zone B, so evacuation wasn't mandatory. That had been yesterday. Neal had stayed, watched the clouds get darker, more dense, more menacing, had watched the wind increase in ferocity.

He'd kept watching the news, and then today they'd shifted the evac zones as the storm drew closer. June's mansion was now in evacuation zone A, meaning he had to leave after all. He was supposed to get out of Manhattan by 5 PM.

Neal had looked into options. The nearest emergency shelter was out of his radius, so he'd called Peter to make sure he was cleared to go there. Surprisingly, seeing how things were a little rocky between them right now, Peter had asked him to come to their place and stay with them rather than at the evac center. Neal had reluctantly agreed, even though he had the notion that the invite was less because of personal concern but more because Peter wanted him close by, keep an eye on him. Maybe there was lingering suspicion that Neal would use the melee of the storm to cut and run.

And Neal would have already been out there in Brooklyn an hour ago if it hadn't been for the phone call between him and Moz. Neal had naïvely (perhaps stupidly) assumed that Mozzie had taken care of the treasure, made sure it was safe when the first hurricane warnings had come in. Because, geez, Moz had set up the Treasure Cam, he'd been out there more often, probably, than he wanted Neal to know about, meticulously cataloguing the artwork, studying the Rembrandt, the Manet, the Max Ernst for hours at a time.

Neal had answered the call from a slightly panicked Moz, who was talking a mile a minute. "Neal, you need to go out to the warehouse, make sure the treasure is secured. I'm stuck in Detroit, and now flights are cancelled and I have no way of getting back to New York in time."

"Detroit? What the hell are you doing in Detroit?"

"Important business," Mozzie said off-handedly, hurriedly.

"And you couldn't have told me this earlier? I need to be out of here in an hour. They started canceling flights days ago, Moz!"

"Yeah, see, I was going to hitch a ride in a friend's Cessna. But that plan just went to hell."

"Great," Neal said sarcastically.

"Can you go?" Mozzie asked, hopeful, still panicked.

"What if Peter looks at my tracking data?"

"Neal," Mozzie declared in a no-nonsense tone. "We're talking about some of the finest, most valuable art in history. Do you think I care if the Suit can see where you're going? Fabricate a story, pull a con. You're good at that."

Neal got slightly annoyed, but could see Mozzie's point. "All right. I'll try."

The taxi driver gave Neal a disbelieving look when Neal told him his destination. In an accent that sounded vaguely eastern European, the guy asked him, "The docks? Are you crazy? You should be getting the hell out of here."

Neal had just given him a cold stare and asked, "Look, can you take me there or not?"

The driver had shut up and just dropped him off at the destination. Even though he'd been warned beforehand that the fare would be higher than normal in current conditions, Neal blanched at the price. It was unbelievable that some of the taxi drivers were milking this. As he exited the vehicle, the door of the cab almost blew out of Neal's hand.

He looked up at the sky, which was a menacing, dark gray wall. Thick droplets of rain were starting to pelt down, hitting him unpleasantly in the face. There were no trees here, but anything that wasn't fastened well enough was being blown through the alleys and streets. Neal could see a small piece of sheet metal traversing across his path, which was eventually stopped by the wall of the slightly derelict looking building he was passing. He drew up his collar and hunched his shoulders.

The brief walk to the warehouse already proved cumbersome. He had to stem his body weight against the wind, shielding his face from the stinging rain drops that increased in intensity. Finally inside, protected from the harsh weather, he allowed himself a short breath of relief.

He looked around, allowed a few seconds to marvel at the riches at his fingertips, but not much more than that. It took him longer than expected to set everything up so that he could be fairly sure it would be safe. Without shelves, it was impossible to secure everything to avoid water damage in case of flood, but with the help of the few pallets left in there, he had ensured that the most delicate, most valuable items were at least two feet above ground.

Of course if the warehouse collapsed, it'd be a whole other story, but there was nothing that Neal could do about it right now—not with the means he had at hand.

Even inside the building, with no windows to the outside world, he could tell the storm was only getting worse. Rain drummed on the metal walls and roof in a steady, heavy beat. Gusts of wind were making the construction creak in its hinges. Neal wasn't so sure the warehouse would be able to withstand the assault. The thought of all this treasure, having lain at the bottom of the ocean for more than 60 years, only to be buried and destroyed by a hurricane now, it would be tragically ironic.

When he was done, he briefly surveyed his handiwork before he left again. He had no idea how to get out of here. A look at his cell phone told him he'd missed the evacuation deadline now. It also told him he had no reception—the first signs of collateral damage from the storm. And even if he'd been able to call for a cab, there would hardly be any remaining in Manhattan that were still operating.

That left getting out of here on foot. He wasn't looking forward to it. When he exited the building, the wind slammed the door shut and out of his grasp. It attacked his back as he inserted the key in the lock and turned it with damp fingers.

His hair and clothes were soaking wet in under a minute as he made (more like fought) his way back towards the city. Plastic tarps flapped in the wind, barely audible over the howling of the gale. Loose pieces of scrap metal bounced around between the buildings.

He briefly allowed himself to glance at the edge of the docks that bordered the river. Waves slapped against the concrete, sending frothy spray shooting upwards and over the edge.

Neal quickened his pace, turning left at the next corner. He knew he had to get away from the water, but it was hard to get his bearings. He'd only ever come here by cab (and only once before), so he could only go by his intuition.

Metal creaked and complained all around him. At one time, he even had to hold on to one of the walls of a building when a particularly strong gust of wind pressed him against it. The rain and the wind was so violent now that he had to duck his head, barely able to look at what was in front of him. This hurricane was effectively blinding and deafening him, and he knew he must be crazy to even be out here.

For a moment, he considered just to seek shelter somewhere, maybe go back to the warehouse, wait it out. Then again, it was for a reason that the evacuation map had shown the territory nearest the water marked in bright red. Neal knew that when the water from the river came, it would only get worse. He needed to get away from the docks before he could think about looking for shelter.

By the time that he became aware of the loud noise next to him, it was already too late. Screeching metal tilted dangerously in his direction as the dilapidated crane he was passing gave way to the gale-force winds whipping against it. There was no time to get out of the way, no chance of escape. The thing was massive, and its solid main beam crashed down on the asphalt a mere three feet from Neal. A split second later, something collapsed on top of him, pinning him to the ground. The force knocked the wind out of him and he could do nothing as the world around him faded to black.

He didn't know how long it took for him to come to. There was a whooshing in his ears, and he realized a few, disoriented seconds later that it wasn't only his own blood but the hurricane that was raging as violently as before—if not worse.

Something hurt. His ribs. His head. His leg. Dull at first, then more piercing, demanding more attention from his brain. He groaned, tried to move. The pain increased, and there was something... Something wasn't quite right.

His leg was pinned underneath something and there was also something covering his torso. His arms felt around helplessly, colliding with metal. Rain hit his skin, his face. Everything was wet and cold. Another moan, and he felt for what was lying on top of him. With a lot of effort, he managed to peel the rods of metal off his chest, but his movements were sluggish, slow.

His leg was more tricky. Propping himself up on his elbows, he could see the massive steel beam that was securing his right leg solidly to the ground above his knee. He tried to pull at it, but that only brought more pain and close to zero movement. His arms found the steel beam, but it weighed more than any healthy man could lift.

With a grunt of pain and exhaustion, he sank back against the wet concrete. It slowly sank in. He was trapped, out here at the Manhattan docks, in the eye of the storm without a soul in sight.

He tried to catch his breath, gathered some resolve. This was not acceptable. He needed to get out of here. With newfound strength, he tried to get his leg free once more. He tugged and pulled until he was out of breath, until he didn't know if his face was wet from the rain or tears of pain and desperation. He succumbed to a short, frustrated scream that dissolved and blended into the roar of the wind.

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Peter Burke looked at his watch for the umpteenth time in the last hour. He was starting to get more and more nervous by the minute.

"He should be here by now," he said to Elizabeth.

"Honey, maybe Neal got delayed somewhere. There's thousands of people trying to get out of Manhattan."

"The evacuation deadline was half an hour ago," Peter protested. "I told him to meet us here an hour ago."

He tried Neal's cell phone again, but only got the out of service message. "Damn," he hissed.

He fired up his laptop, brought up the software that let him check Neal's tracking data. He frowned at what he saw on the screen. Neal was still within his radius, but he was somewhere near the docks, the little red dot on the screen teasing him, not moving.

"And?" Elizabeth asked.

"This is weird. Says he's at the Manhattan docks."

She came around the table and looked at the screen with him. "The docks? Why would he be out there in this weather?"

Peter rubbed his chin. "Something's wrong."

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Neal was about to give up. He was cold and weak and exhausted. His head hurt, and his ribcage hurt, and his leg was giving him hell. This wasn't working, he needed another plan.

He lay back with his head on the ground, wondering whether anyone would be looking for him. He hoped, prayed that Peter had noticed something wasn't right. He should have realized by now Neal hadn't shown up at the agreed time.

Suddenly he realized that he might have a shot at getting attention, if that hadn't already happened. If he manipulated his tracker, cut it, could get it off somehow so that it would send a signal, then maybe someone would come.

He struggled to sit up as best as he could. His left leg was a far cry from being accessible, but he could move it. The tracker was hard to reach in his position, and he wondered how the hell he could get it to emit a signal. He looked around, and the only way he could see was to use brute force.

He fumbled around in the metal rubble and finally came away with something akin to a metal rod. Reaching his leg with it was still difficult, and it was even more difficult to hit the right spot. At first he didn't have enough momentum, so his attempts fell flat on the hard plastic. The anklet was sturdy—it had to be. Which Neal now inwardly cursed.

A few times, he had to bite down on his lip and suppress a moan when the rod slipped and didn't quite hit its target. Neal's ankle would sport some impressive bruises the next day. He didn't know how often he had to try, but in the end, he hit the right spot with the right amount of force, and the plastic splintered. The green light went out, and Neal prayed that it would also alert the right people, would send someone springing into action.

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Peter still had Neal's tracking data up on the screen when his computer emitted an alarm. He rushed to the table, studied the read-out. Elizabeth was alarmed as well.

"What is it?"

"Neal's tracker just activated."

"Is he outside his radius?"

"No," he shook his head. "Still in the same spot."

"What do you think that means?" she asked.

"This isn't good. Something's definitely wrong. El, I need to go out there."

"Are you crazy? In the middle of a hurricane?"

He was already on the way upstairs to look for a sweater, something more suitable to wear. "What if he's trapped out there? I don't know, locked in or something, unable to call for help."

"Peter, I think you're being a little paranoid."

"Am I?"

"Can't you call NYPD or the fire department to send someone?"

"I will. But they'll need my help to locate him. I gotta go."

Her gaze was skeptical, even a little afraid. "Peter, I hate to see you going out there."

"Honey, I wouldn't if this wasn't important. Do you want Neal to be out there on his own?"

She pondered this for a moment, then shook her head. "No. Go get him. And don't do anything stupid."

"I won't," he promised.

He gave her a soft kiss on the lips, then went upstairs to look for the most waterproof attire that he had.

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In the car, Peter called NYPD, but they were less than cooperative. In no uncertain terms, he was being told that they had their hands full and didn't have any personnel to spare to go out there on half a hunch. Peter tried to explain to them that it was more than a hunch, but he could certainly understand their rebuttal under these circumstances.

He didn't have any real proof that Neal was in danger. And NYPD was struggling as it was with the evac centers and sheer numbers of concerned calls coming in. He wished he could have an ambulance there, but he was told to radio it in if one was truly needed.

The drive was difficult. Gusts of wind kept shaking the car left and right, and the windscreen wipers, even in fast mode, couldn't keep up with the masses of water that poured from the heavens. Thankfully, the streets in the direction of Manhattan were barely frequented. No one but him was crazy enough to drive right into the middle of the evacuation zone.

Slowly, painfully, he neared Neal's location. Twice he had to brake hard to avoid flying debris and tree branches. Finally, he got close to the docks. It took some navigating and it was hard to pinpoint where exactly Neal would be.

His car kept inching closer to the blinking red dot on the screen. When he seemed to be right on top of it, he stopped the car and got out. The hood of his sailing jacket secured around his face, he looked around. He called out Neal's name a few times, but it was swept up by the wind and noise.

There was nothing there than buildings, and if Neal was inside of one of them, it would be hard to find him. It would also be getting dark soon, and Peter realized it would be so much harder to find Neal if daylight was fading.

"Neal!" he hollered again, with no effect.

He briskly walked in one direction, rounded a corner, and that's when he saw it. Something had collapsed onto the side of the road that looked a lot like an old crane. Peter jogged closer, calling out Neal's name.

He thought he could see something—someone—lying in amongst the metal. He quickened his pace, now ran as much as the weather would allow him. "Neal!" he yelled again, now seeing a figure lying amidst the debris. A figure that wasn't moving. Peter's stomach plummeted.

"Neal! No!" Peter yelled again, kneeling down next to Neal's unmoving body. "Please, God, don't let him be dead!" he prayed. His wet fingers fumbled for a pulse at Neal's neck, which was there, strong and steady. He was breathing too. That was good.

Peter tried to assess the scene, realized what was going on. Neal's leg was pinned underneath the metal structure. He tried to grab Neal under the shoulders, pull at him, but Neal's leg wasn't budging.

A moan escaped Neal's lips. Obviously, all the prodding and pulling was causing him pain. Peter stopped what he was doing, cupped Neal's face with his hands. "Neal. Neal, can you hear me?"

His eyes fluttered open, comprehension only slowly mixing in. "Peter," Neal rasped. "You're here."

"Yeah, I'm here," he said. "Jesus, what—"

"Peter," Neal mumbled, his voice small, relieved, exhausted. "It hurts."

"I know, buddy. Don't worry. I'm gonna get you out of here, okay? Where does it hurt? Your leg?"

"Leg. Ribs. Head," came Neal's reply.

"Okay," Peter quickly assessed. Head. That wasn't good. Hopefully nothing serious, but the loss of consciousness earlier could be a bad sign. "Can you feel your toes, wiggle them?"

Neal's face scrunched up in pain, but he nodded yes.

He checked Neal's leg again a little more closely. It seemed to be pinned, but it didn't look like anything had pierced it. Lifting up the pant leg at the bottom, the skin looked darker than normal, but not dangerously purple. Circulation didn't seem to have been compromised too badly. If he could just move the metal beam a few inches, he might get Neal free.

Another gust of wind howled and pressed against his back so strongly that he almost stumbled as he straightened up. The rain had let up a little bit, but came back now full force.

Peter pushed the hood of his jacket up that had slid down his forehead and was now blocking some of his visual field. He stood over the beam, his legs astride and gripped the metal edge. He tried to lift it with all his might, but it was too heavy. He grunted and tried again, but to no avail. He stopped, looked at Neal.

"You still with me, buddy?"

"Yeah," came the weak reply.

"Good. Keep it that way."

Peter's eyes searched among the rubble for something he could use for extra leverage, something that could act as a lever. Nothing he found looked like it might be sturdy enough. Then it hit him. The car-jack. That would work.

He crouched down next to Neal's head, raising his voice above the uproar. "Neal, listen to me. I can't lift this thing off. I need to get the car-jack from the car. I'll be back in a few minutes, okay? Can you stay awake for me? Can you do that?"

Neal blinked, then nodded slowly. Peter patted his shoulder. "Good."

He fought his way back to the car, rummaged around in the trunk until he found what he was looking for. The menacing rain clouds shrouded the world in a darkened haze, and he could feel the first inklings of dusk tugging at them. He decided to also dig out the flashlight from the glove compartment, but he hoped he could beat the fading daylight and get them both out of there by the time darkness descended.

He got in the car, throwing the car-jack and the flashlight onto the passenger seat. Now that he knew where Neal was, he wanted to get the car as close as possible.

Stopping the Taurus right next to the scene, he braved the weather once more. Back outside, his first concern was for his partner. "Neal, you still with me?"

Neal had his eyes closed and didn't respond. Peter's heart skipped a beat. "Neal, come on. Wake up," he urged, touching his shoulder.

"I'm right here," Neal finally responded, voice thready.

"Yeah, you need to stay awake for me."

"I'm really cold."

"I know," Peter said, hoping it sounded reassuring. "I'll have you out of here soon. I have the car-jack." He showed it to Neal, then wedged it underneath the steel beam. He turned to Neal when it was secured in place.

"Okay, I'm gonna start lifting this thing. You need to help me get your leg out, okay? Can you start pulling, once the beam comes off?"

"I'll try," Neal replied.

"Okay. Ready?"

"Yeah."

Peter turned his attention back to the car-jack and started turning the lever. It wasn't easy to do this with the little space he had in among the debris with an injured Neal lying right next to him. He started panting, started sweating underneath his parka.

The beam moved upward by fractions of an inch. Peter put more force into it, cranked harder. It seemed to take forever until he could feel Neal moving next to him.

Peter stopped and turned to Neal, who had propped himself up. A grimace of pain marred his features as he seemed to be moving his body backward. Peter stepped behind him and looped his arms through Neal's armpits, pulling him out.

This was accompanied by a sharp cry of pain from Neal, and Peter didn't know if it was the ribs or the leg that caused it, but he could feel Neal coming free of the metal trap and pulled only the harder, ignoring the outcry.

He only let go of Neal, once his legs had cleared the structure. Neal slumped back against the asphalt, his lips pressed together in a moan. Peter went to examine Neal right thigh. There was a tear in the fabric of his khaki slacks, some blood. Trying to assess the extent of the damage proved difficult without getting the pants off, though it didn't seem like there was anything he could do about the injury other than getting Neal to a hospital.

"Can you walk?" he asked Neal.

"I don't know."

Yeah, probably not, Peter thought. He quickly slid over to the car and opened the back door, then crouched down next to Neal and lifted Neal's body into his arms to carry him to the Taurus.

Peter almost buckled under the weight, because, damn, Neal was heavy and his clothes rain-soaked, but he gripped on tightly. He could feel Neal shivering in his arms. It was only a few steps to the car, and he tried to place Neal on the back seat as gingerly as possible.

Neal had his eyes closed with pained lines on his forehead, his chest rising and falling in panting breaths. He could see he was shaking, and he didn't know if it was from shock or cold, or both. Peter quickly went back to the trunk, got out the blanket that he kept there for emergencies.

Back with Neal, he carefully draped the blanket over his trembling, soaking wet body, quickly squeezing Neal's upper arm for some comfort.

"You okay?" Peter asked.

"I'll live," Neal pressed out through clenched teeth. The activity and the pain must have made the adrenaline kick back in. He sounded a lot more alert when he said, "Just get us the hell out of here."

Peter was more than happy to oblige. He tried calling for an ambulance, but there was still no cell phone reception and his car didn't have a radio. He tried to think. What was the closest hospital? Lennox Hill? Mount Sinai? Metropolitan? Peter tried to remember if any of them had been evacuated, but he didn't think so.

The drive to Lennox Hill was as treacherous as the drive out to the docks. Neal moaned a few times when Peter had to swerve or break to avoid obstacles on the road. Peter's main concern was to get to the emergency room as quickly as possible, but the drive still seemed to be taking forever.

Finally there, hospital staff helped get Neal onto a gurney, wheeled him inside. In the harsh fluorescent light, Peter realized for the first time all the scrapes and bruises, the exhaustion on his face, how ashen Neal's face looked. The kid was seriously shaken up, and something clamped around Peter's heart.

Neal was wheeled into a vacant exam room and Peter was stopped at the door. A doctor briefly quizzed him on what happened, on Neal's symptoms. Peter explained what he knew.

The doctor vanished inside, and the nurse that was with him asked, "Sir, are you injured as well?"

He shook his head. "No. No, I'm okay."

It was then that he realized there was blood on his hands. When he looked down, he noticed the ugly, crimson stains on his thighs for the first time. They seemed rather big and— Shit. He'd looked at Neal's leg wound, but it hadn't seemed all that serious. Had Neal lost more blood that he'd realized? Had he been injured somewhere other than his leg and Peter hadn't noticed? Or was it just the rain that had enlarged the stains?

The nurse pulled Peter from his reverie. He was urged to wait in the waiting area, and the sympathetic nurse told him where the restroom was so he could get cleaned up.

In the waiting room, he was happy to find that his cell phone seemed to working. He called Elizabeth, explained to her that he was okay, and that Neal would hopefully be too. He didn't want to voice his concern about the extent of Neal's injuries until it was substantiated. El sounded relieved that Peter was fine, but he could also hear that she was worried for Neal.

He sat in the waiting room for a while, watching other storm victims and patients come in through the doors, frowning at crying children being comforted by their mothers in the waiting room with limited success, averting his eyes from the old man who was giving him distasteful looks for some reason he couldn't discern.

The nurse that came and asked for him was wearing light peach colored scrubs. She had questions about Neal's tracker and stated they were taking him to get a head CT and needed to remove it.

Peter's sense of foreboding immediately kicked in. A head CT. Did Neal have a serious head injury? This was disconcerting. When he asked, the nurse explained she couldn't tell Peter any medical information since he wasn't family, but she reassured him that Neal was well taken care of and that the CT was just a precaution. However, she needed to know about the tracking anklet.

Peter had somehow totally forgotten about the tracker, but he had a fleeting suspicion Neal had tried to break it, which might have been what triggered the signal it had sent. Peter quickly explained to the nurse what the device was and that it was okay to remove it. He also made sure to mention Neal was not dangerous or presented a flight risk. That seemed to reassure the nurse enough to walk away again, talk to the staff that was treating Neal.

It was more waiting after that. Daylight had all but faded in the meantime, and the storm was still waging its war. He could hear the rain whipping against the windows, could hear the wind sweeping through the streets with a ferociousness that was intimidating to even the bravest man. One of the fluorescent lights above him flickered at an unnerving frequency and the humming that accompanied it was starting to drive him crazy.

When his name was finally called again, he was all too happy to get out of there. Apparently Neal had asked for him by name. He was being sent to the exam room where Neal had first been taken. The upper part of the half gurney, half bed Neal was lying on was propped up at an angle. The blanket that covered his lower body stopped at the hip, revealing the hospital gown they had put him in. An IV was dripping clear fluid into his vein through a cannula in his arm.

Neal greeted Peter with a weak smile that fell short in its persuasiveness. He looked small, fragile and utterly exhausted.

"Hey buddy," Peter said.

"Hey," Neal said.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like someone tried to saw my leg off?" he said hesitantly, trying to sound upbeat but failed somewhere along the way.

Peter's mouth curved into a small smile at the quip. "So what's the verdict? Are they admitting you?"

At that moment, the doctor Peter had already spoken to earlier came into the room with a large, beige envelope and a patient chart in his hand. He looked at Peter, then addressed Neal. "Your x-rays came back, and we've also got the CT results."

The doctor looked at Peter. "And for privacy reasons, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"I'd like him to stay," Neal said.

The doctor nodded. "Yes, of course." He then turned back to Neal. "Mr. Caffrey, I think you've been very lucky. You have a severe contusion of your thigh muscle, and there was a gash that required stitches. We found some bruising on your ribcage, but it appears to be minor and nothing's broken, though it's probably going to be painful for a while. There's no abnormalities on the CT. Still, the loss of consciousness is a concern and we've diagnosed a concussion. Your neurological exam was normal, but we'd like to keep you overnight for observation."

Neal groaned at the news, but Peter gave him a no-nonsense look. "Do I have to stay?" Neal asked.

"It is very much recommended," the doctor told him. "Head injuries can be tricky."

Neal gave Peter a pleading look, but Peter lifted his arms in defense. "I'm not signing you out AMA."

The doctor scribbled something on the chart, then looked back at Neal. "We're admitting you to the Internal Medicine ward for now. Someone should come and take you up there shortly."

"Okay, thank you," Neal said, and the doctor left.

Peter looked around, found a stool on wheels that he pulled closer to Neal's bed.

"Do you know where my clothes are? Can you make sure to collect them?"

Peter frowned. Why would Neal be concerned about his clothes right now? Maybe this was just the way your brain was wired when you were on painkillers after you'd just been through an ordeal like that, your mind holding on to things that were tangible, anchored in a reality, felt normal.

"I'll take care of all of that, don't worry," Peter reassured him. He didn't have the heart to tell Neal they were probably ruined anyway.

Neal allowed himself to close his eyes, let the exhaustion wash over him, drawing in a breath. When he opened them again, he took in Peter's worried gaze on him.

"Neal, what were you doing out there?" Peter asked, his voice not accusing but gently curious.

Neal closed his eyes again, and Peter almost regretted asking the question. He did answer, however weary it came out. "It was for Mozzie."

"Mozzie? Was he out there?"

"No," Neal mumbled.

"Then what? Is he all right?"

"Yeah, he's fine. Can we not talk about that right now?"

"Okay," Peter acquiesced.

"How did you find me?" Neal asked tiredly after a short pause.

"I got worried when you didn't show up at our house. Checked your tracking data. Then your tracker activated, and I knew something was wrong."

"Yeah, thank God for that thing, huh?" A weak grin crept onto his face, but then he seemed to remember something. A brief flicker of something akin to panic upset the balance. "They cut it off when they put me in the scanner."

"I know. I cleared it. It's okay."

"So now what? You gonna handcuff me to the bed?"

"No, Neal," Peter said, "I'm gonna trust that you won't run. Where would you go in this weather anyway?"

"Is the storm still raging?"

Peter allowed himself a quick look out the window, but there was nothing there than darkness and droplets of rain clinging to the window pane, sliding down in a net of rivulets. "Like a son of a bitch," he told Neal.

Silence fell, and for a moment Peter thought that Neal might have dozed off, but Neal then said just short of a whisper, "I got buried under a crane today." It sounded almost like a revelation, definitely a realization.

"You did," Peter softly confirmed.

"And you saved me."

"Yeah."

It was barely audible, but Peter could still hear it. "Thank you."

Peter swiveled the chair in Neal's direction. He was close enough to touch him, and for a moment his hand hovered over Neal's arm. He didn't give in to the impulse and let his hand sink onto his own thighs, placing them palm-down on his jeans that were still damp from the rain, surprised at how warm the fabric felt underneath his hands.

"Any time, Neal," Peter said. And he meant it.

Peter thought Neal had dozed off after that. His breathing evened out, his eyes were closed, and he looked strangely, peacefully innocent. Peter hoped he could get some rest. It took maybe half an hour until a nurse came into the room to move Neal up to the Internal Medicine ward.

The commotion awoke Neal, but he seemed a little dazed. Peter suspected it was the pain meds, the aftershock finally setting in.

The nurse prepared Neal's bed for the transfer, eyeing Peter rather suspiciously, even though he'd tried not to get in the way. "Sir, we're moving Mr. Caffrey now. It'll take a while until he's settled in. I'm afraid you're going to have to come back later. Someone up in Internal Medicine can tell you the room number."

Peter wasn't about to leave Neal's side. At the very least he needed to make sure he was put in a decent room, that everything he needed was taken care of. He went with the friendly approach first and asked nicely, but the nurse remained steadfast. That was when he pulled the FBI agent card.

He got his badge from his pocket, held it up for her to see. "I'm afraid that Mr. Caffrey is a criminal consultant, out on a work release with the FBI. His tracking anklet was damaged in the accident, which is why I need to stay with him."

That made the nurse stop dead in her tracks. "He's a criminal? Why is he not handcuffed?"

"He's not dangerous."

"He is right here," Neal said, his voice slightly irritated, which Peter chose to ignore.

"Fine," the nurse just said to Peter. "Just stay out of the way."

+-+-+-+-+

Up in Internal Medicine, Peter chose to let Neal have some dignity and waited in the hallway while they got him settled in the new room. A no-nonsense looking nurse gave Peter a forced smile as she exited the room and nodded to indicate he could go back in. No doubt the ER nurse had briefed her on Neal's CI status.

When Peter knocked and went inside, Neal gave him a weak smile that he knew was meant to be encouraging but only got halfway there. "Making sure I didn't run?" Neal asked.

"Something like that."

"Seriously, why are you still here? And don't give me the 'convicted criminal' explanation, because I'm not buying that."

"Neal, I'm just..." Peter didn't know how to say it, so he trailed off.

"What? Worried? Peter, that's sweet and all, but I'm all right. I can stay a night in the hospital by myself. Go home to your wife."

Peter regarded him for a long moment. "Are you sure?"

Neal actually emitted a short, honest laugh at that. "Yes, I'm sure. Go home. Be with El. Please."

Peter still looked hesitant, but there was a defiance in Neal's expression that finally made him concede. He met Neal's gaze, held eye contact. "Neal, can I count on you not running? Because without your tracker, and no way to get a new one before tomorrow, I should be asking the hospital to restrain you to the bed."

"You said it yourself. Where would I go in this weather? And quite honestly? This," he gestured at his thigh, "hurts like hell. Putting weight on it isn't very high on my to-do list right now."

Something in Neal's expression struck a chord with Peter as Neal said, "But if it'll make you feel better, you can have them restrain me. I mean, sleeping will be a pain that way, but..."

"No," Peter interrupted. "It's all right. But, Neal, if I come back here tomorrow morning and you're gone, you know that—"

Neal interrupted him. "I know. You'll chase me, you'll catch me. I go back to prison. Peter, I promise I won't run."

Peter's gaze lingered on Neal for a long moment. "All right," he finally said. Looking around the room, he asked, "Do you have everything you need?"

"Yeah. Hospital gown. Toothbrush, towels, it's all there."

"I'll be back tomorrow morning," Peter promised.

"Tell Elizabeth I'm sorry," Neal said as Peter was about to leave the room.

"For what?"

"For dragging you away from her during one of the scariest nights the city has seen in a while."

Peter smiled a small smile at that. "I'll tell her, but I'm sure her mothering instincts will erase any grudge she might have ever held when she sees you like this."

Neal groaned a little, and Peter's smile widened. "Come on, don't pretend you're not going to enjoy it."

Neal replied with a faint smirk. "Maybe I will. Just a little."

"You better. Hang in there, okay?"

"I will," Neal acknowledged.

As he left the hospital, Peter still had a tiny, nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach to make himself vulnerable like this. If Neal ran, he'd be in a world of trouble as well, and he was all too aware of it. To trust Neal completely was not something that was written down in Peter's rulebook just yet. But here, tonight, under these circumstances, it had seemed like the right thing to put trust in Neal. He just hoped he wouldn't regret it the next morning.

+-+-+-+-+

The night was fitful for Peter. He wasn't sure if it was the wind pressing in gusts against the window panes, or the uncertainty of having left Neal trackerless in a Manhattan hospital, or possibly a combination of both.

He got up before six, his wife still breathing evenly next to him under a mount of sheets. In the living room he was greeted by a tail-wagging Satchmo. Outside, the sky was still gray, the leaves of the trees still bent and rustled in the wind, and raindrops pit-patted into the puddles in the street at a steady frequency. Peter decided to inspect the yard for storm damage.

Soft footsteps on the stairs announced Elizabeth's presence fifteen minutes later, her body wrapped tightly in a terry-cloth robe. "Good morning," she said, looking sleepy and sounding it too.

"What, no coffee?" she grouched.

"Sorry," he apologized. "I was checking the yard."

"Any damage?"

"No, just a few tree branches and a lot of stray leaves. Looks like everything held up."

She came over, softly kissed his lips. "I'll make coffee."

Peter went upstairs to get dressed for work and came back downstairs a little later. The steaming mug of coffee that Elizabeth handed him was accepted gladly. He proceeded into the living room where he switched on the TV to tune it to a news station. On the screen, a newscaster was standing by the waterside, reporting that Irene had caused less damage than expected. This was encouraging.

"Looks like the worst is over," he said to Elizabeth.

"Yeah." She stood next to him, watched the newscaster recite her story for a moment. "You going to see Neal?"

"I hope they'll release him today. I was going to go there before work."

"I'd like to come with you. We should drop by his place first, get him some clothes."

He draped an arm around her shoulders, kissed her softly on the head. "Yeah."

She looked up at him, a question forming in her eyes. "You said his thigh was pretty bad. He's not gonna be able to navigate all those stairs at June's house, is he?"

Peter shrugged. "I don't know. I suppose they'll give him crutches."

"Honey, shouldn't we bring him here? At least until he's halfway mobile again."

It came as no surprise to Peter for her to suggest it. And he wasn't opposed to the idea either. "You sure you want a dependent, grouching, whining Neal Caffrey in our house?"

She laughed. "Now, when you phrase it that way..."

Peter sobered. "I think it'll be good for him."

"All right, then let's go get him."

+-+-+-+-+

It felt weird for Peter to enter June's mansion with no one present. As per Neal's request he'd collected Neal's personal items at the hospital the night before, and extracted the keys to the house from them. He'd suspected that June had sent all the housekeeping personnel home, so it was no surprise when he rang the doorbell and no one answered. He used Neal's keys to gain entry, feeling strangely out of place and very much like an intruder.

The mansion felt like a ghost house, some of the wooden steps creaking ever so slightly under his weight. He and El made their way upstairs to Neal's loft.

El immediately started packing some of Neal's clothes into a small duffel bag. Peter opened the door to the patio, looking around. Someone had done a pretty thorough job of securing what was possible. The boxwoods had been moved next to the walls and tied in place with some kind of string. The table and chairs had been moved aside as well. Two of the chairs had toppled over and Peter bent down to put them back in place. He also moved a few twigs and branches out of the way that the wind had carried up here.

Back inside, El just came back out of the hallway that led to the bathroom. "Okay, I think I've got everything he might need. You ready to go?"

"Yep," he confirmed.

A call back from Hughes came in as Peter had just pulled off the curb, answering the message that Peter had left on his voicemail earlier that morning. As expected, Hughes had no problem with Peter coming in late under the circumstances. Peter thought he could even detect concern in Hughes' voice when he asked if Caffrey was okay. Neal had made many friends and only few enemies in the time he'd worked with the FBI, and Peter couldn't deny a certain hint of pride welling up inside him.

At the hospital, Peter found the smell of disinfectant and the bland, gray interior mildly intimidating. They found Neal's room effortlessly with Peter leading the way. Entering the room, they were welcomed by a much more alert looking Neal than he remembered from the night before.

The first thing that struck Peter was an angry bruise that covered Neal's cheek and a number of scratches on his forehead. Somehow he hadn't noticed them being so prominent the night before.

Peter tried to sound cheerful as he greeted Neal with a, "Hey."

Neal said a, "Hey," back. When he saw Elizabeth, his expression brightened visibly. "Elizabeth," he smiled at her.

"Neal," she smiled at him, stepping closer to his bed, squeezing his hand encouragingly. "You've had a quite a night last night, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess you could say that."

"So, are they releasing you?" Peter probed.

"One can only hope. But I think they might."

"How's your leg?" Peter asked.

"You know, sore... I'll live."

Elizabeth held up the bag, placed it on a chair in the corner. "We brought you some clothes."

"Raided Peter's wardrobe?" Neal said with a smirk.

"No, actually, this is from your own collection," Elizabeth explained.

"You went by my place?"

Peter nodded. "We did."

Neal looked genuinely touched. "Really, you didn't have to."

"Yeah," Peter said, "you can thank us later by not being a pain in the neck when you're staying with us."

"I'm... what? I'm staying with you?"

Elizabeth stepped closer to the bed again. "We just thought it'd be a lot more convenient. There's not as many stairs, and you'll need all the help you can get to move around for the next few days."

"No, seriously, I'll be fine at June's house," Neal protested.

"Yeah, sure you will," Peter countered. "Just like you were fine extracting yourself from under a pile of metal debris in the middle of a hurricane."

Elizabeth put on her best puppy dog eyes. "Please, Neal, we'd love to have you."

He considered this for a moment, unable to resist her large, blue eyes. "I really don't want to impose..."

She smiled a winning smile at him. "Please. You're not imposing. We're glad to help."

He averted his eyes, looked at the fingers in his lap. "Thank you," he said in a low, honest voice.

Her hands found his arm, her warm fingers encircled it, squeezing a little. "Any time."

Peter was starting to get a little fidgety. "So, what do we need to do to get you out of here?"

Neal's grin was slightly sheepish. "I don't know, maybe you could flash your badge again. That always seems to work wonders."

"Don't push it," Peter warned, but left the room anyway to find someone who could move the process along.

It took almost an hour to get all the paperwork ready and fix Neal up to leave the hospital. El gracefully excused herself when it was time for Neal to get dressed. Peter stayed to help, which Neal grudgingly (but still gratefully) allowed. Getting Neal into a pair of rather fancy looking track pants took time and a lot of grimaces and hisses. Peter caught a brief glimpse at the angry purple bruise on Neal's ribcage as he changed into a t-shirt, and Peter inwardly winced. That had to hurt.

Finally dressed in a black zip-sweater, Peter helped him put on the loafers El had chosen for their convenient absence of shoe laces. They'd advised Neal earlier to walk on crutches for at least the next three days. Miraculously, El appeared with a pair in Neal's room just when the nurse entered with a wheelchair.

Neal looked at her questioningly, but there was no time for questions when Peter's strong hands helped him gingerly into the wheelchair.

Neal awkwardly hobbled on crutches to Peter's car in front of the hospital and El helped him into the passenger seat. By the time they had driven to Brooklyn and maneuvered Neal inside the Burkes' living room, he was utterly exhausted.

Peter kept a watchful eye on him as Elizabeth went upstairs and prepared the guestroom. "You all right?" Peter inquired.

"Yeah, peachy. As long as I don't have to move again."

Peter smiled at that. "No, you don't have to move again, at least not for a while. Though unfortunately the bathroom is upstairs."

Neal groaned at that. "Yeah, thanks. There's one thing that's more convenient at June's place."

Peter rubbed his chin. Darn, he hadn't thought of that. "We can still take you there if you want."

"No," Neal said tiredly. "I'll manage. And, you know, maybe I just won't drink anything."

"Yeah, not a great plan. Especially since I recall the doctor saying—"

"Yeah, yeah," Neal waved dismissively, "Kidney output and all that. Geez, you don't need to go all Nurse Ratched on me."

Peter lifted his hands apologetically. "Okay, okay. Sorry."

Neal just sighed and Peter went to the kitchen, pouring two glasses of orange juice. He went back to the living room with them, placing one in front of Neal, sipping from the other. He sat down in the armchair nearby, a worried eye trained on his CI.

Neal had stretched out his injured leg on the couch and was reclined there with his head against the headrest, his eyes closed. He opened them just a little when silence ensued.

"Hover much?" Neal asked, a slightly annoyed edge to his voice.

"What, this is my house!"

"Yeah, and that's why I didn't want to stay here in the first place."

It was then that Elizabeth came downstairs again. "Now, now, boys, play nice."

"Please tell your husband not to hover," Neal grumbled.

El gave Peter a chiding look. "What did you do?"

Peter's expression spelled pure innocence. "Nothing! I swear. I'm just sitting here."

She went over to Peter, placed a hand on his shoulder. "Honey, weren't you planning to go to the office?"

Peter got up with a grunt. "Okay, I can see when I'm not wanted."

She gave him a commiserative look, accompanying him to the door. "Honey," she whispered, "I'm sure he didn't mean it. He's in pain and—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he interrupted. Stealing a quick glance at Neal's unmoving form on their couch, he added in a more conciliatory tone, "Just... take care of him. Make sure he takes the painkillers."

She gave him a winning smile. "I will. Will you be home for dinner?"

"I'll try."

She gave him a quick peck on the lips before he left through the door.

+-+-+-+-+

El was surprised how agreeable a patient Neal really was. She'd half expected him to be whiny and demanding, but he'd been neither. She'd checked with him often, made sure he had everything he needed. At some point he'd wanted to make an attempt up the stairs, and El had made sure he made it there safe and sound.

When she went back to check after a while, she found him on the bed in the guest room, a pillow behind his back, a book in his lap he was reading from.

"You gonna stay up here?" she carefully asked.

He looked up at her. "If that's okay."

"Oh, of course it's okay. The couch, the guest room, living room, kitchen, it's all yours, wherever you prefer to be."

"Thanks," he told her. "But I'm fine in here for a while."

"Want me to get you anything? Something to drink?"

He indicated the half full bottle of Evian on the nightstand. "Thank you, but I'm good."

She let out a quick chuckle. "This whole mother-henning thing, is it too much?"

He laughed. "No, it's... sweet, actually."

"So... you don't mind?"

"No, I don't mind," he assured her. "So, how can I convince you that I don't need anything for at least the next hour or two? Besides," he picked up his Blackberry from the night stand, "I can always call your landline."

"Or just call down the stairs,"

"Or that."

"Well then, Mr. Caffrey, I will go downstairs and not bother you again for at least the next two hours. That is what you were implying, is it not?"

He grinned at her. "Too obvious?"

"Maybe a little."

"Sorry," he shrugged awkwardly, grimacing as it aggravated his bruised ribs.

"Oh, don't worry about it. I'm trainable. One more thing. Peter wanted me to make sure—"

"I took my painkillers," he interrupted.

"And have you?"

"Would you believe me if I said yes?"

"Neal, I'm not gonna count your pills, but there is no reason for you to suffer any more than you should."

His gaze on her was uncommonly frank. "Which is why I took two of them just ten minutes ago. And I'm not just saying that."

She nodded. "And I will take your word for it." She waved in the direction of the door. "You know, just call if you—"

"Need anything. I know."

She gave him a self-conscious smile. "Sorry. I'm leaving now. I promise."

He just chuckled and Elizabeth made her way down into the living room.

+-+-+-+-+

It was actually almost three hours later that Elizabeth checked on Neal again. Not so much on purpose but more a cursory peek through the door that was slightly ajar on the way back down from the bathroom.

A slight draft of air caressed her face as she stole a gaze into the room. Neal was sitting by the open window, his gaze directed at the street in front of the house. There was something slightly heartbreaking in the way he looked so forlorn. Elizabeth couldn't help but enter.

His gaze traveled up to her face, and she could see that he didn't bother hiding the exhaustion, the weariness, the physical pain.

She came up behind him, placing her hands gently on his shoulders. "Isn't this a little too chilly?"

He looked back out the window. "I just needed some fresh air."

"You want me to close it?"

"No, not yet," he said.

She thought she could feel him shivering just a little beneath her hands, so she went over the bed and got the woolen blanket that was folded neatly at the foot of the bed. She unfolded it and carefully draped it over Neal. "Here, how's that?"

"Perfect."

She squeezed his shoulder again just a little, then sat down on the edge of the bed, not far from Neal. "This the first time you've injured a leg?" she asked.

"Actually, no. Why do you ask?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Seems like you know how to handle crutches."

"I broke my leg once. As a kid. I was maybe 14 or 15, I think. I was on crutches for two or three weeks."

"Sports injury?"

"No. It was..." he trailed off, and Elizabeth could sense that it wasn't memory he wanted to relieve, for whatever reason. "It was a long time ago," he added.

"So, Peter never told me the whole story. You were pinned by a falling crane in the middle of a hurricane?"

Embarrassment crept into his smile. "Yeah. Sounds a little sensational, doesn't it?"

She chuckled. "A little. Should I be asking why you were out there in the midst of a storm?"

"It's kind of a long story," he evaded.

"And you know that Peter is going to want to hear it."

"Yeah, I bet he will."

"Are you going to lie to him?"

The question was blunt, provocative. Elizabeth knew Neal too well. He drew in a breath and held it, and it was enough of an answer for her.

"Neal, you know what they say: What goes around comes around. And you know that if you keep doing it, it's going to fall apart somewhere along the way."

His head turned to face her, his eyes flashing with a subdued anger that he quickly smoothed over. "No offense, Elizabeth, but you don't know what you're talking about."

She shook her head slowly. "No, maybe I don't, but I know enough to recognize the signs. You know that Peter still suspects you had something to do with that treasure, that maybe you still have it."

"Yes," he simply said.

"And you know what happens if he finds out that you do, don't you?"

"Who says that I do?" Was she saying that she knew he had the treasure? Or at least knew where it was?

"Well, maybe you don't. Like you said, I don't know what I'm talking about. But, Neal, whatever this is, do you remember that time when you came to talk to me, after this guy, what was his name? Lawrence? Something about Jones and a plane?"

Neal tried to think back, then remembered. "Yeah. You said something about doing the wrong things for the right reasons."

"Tell me I'm wrong when I say, this," she gestured at his injured leg, "had nothing to do with one of those wrong things you did for the right reasons."

"I guess that depends on how you look at it."

"Neal, I'd hate to see you get into trouble. Or worse."

"Elizabeth, if you knew what this was about..."

Her voice was calm, sympathetic. "I think I do. It's about you trying to find your way. You've been conning your way through life for as long as you can remember. And it's hard to give up that way of life. But, Neal, at some point you're going to have to make a decision."

"Con or man?"

She nodded. "Something like that."

He was silent for a long moment. "I wish it was as easy as that." His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "At this point, I don't know how to get out of it without hurting somebody."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No," he said quickly. "I gotta figure this out on my own."

Her gaze on him was compassionate, maybe a little sad. "I hope you do."

Just at that moment, the Burkes' phone rang. "Let me get that," Elizabeth said.

Five minutes later, she poked her head into the guestroom. "That was Peter, he's going to be here soon. I'm going to start preparing dinner. You know the drill."

He smiled at her. "Holler if I need anything?"

She gave a quick laugh. "I see you're trainable too."

+-+-+-+-+

It was just after six when Peter got home. The day in the office had been ordered chaos. They'd run on a skeleton crew since some of the agents hadn't made it in after the hurricane. Not that this had been too much of a problem. If the commotion of the storm had prompted any white collar criminals to spring to action, it hadn't filtered through to the FBI yet. However, Peter knew it would only be a short-lasting lull. Natural disasters always had a tendency for the slyest of criminals to exploit ensuing mayhem.

Entering from the vestibule into the living room, he half expected Neal to be lying o the couch, but it was empty, the blanket neatly folded at one end.

"Honey?" he called.

Elizabeth emerged from the kitchen, giving him a warm smile. "Perfect timing, dinner's almost ready."

"Is Neal upstairs?"

"Yeah. Why don't you go get him?"

He held up the black plastic item he was carrying in his hand, waving it slightly. "Right. Then I can also put this back where it belongs."

Upstairs, Peter carefully approached the guestroom. He hesitated, then softly rapped on the door. When no answer was forthcoming, he opened the door a crack, peering in. Neal was lying on the bed, half covered by a beige blanket, eyes closed, seemingly asleep.

Peter couldn't help but smile. Childlike innocence prevailed on the young ex-con's face, and it was hard to believe the deceit he was capable of. Peter had to quell the sudden urge to walk up to him and ruffle a hand through his hair.

He cleared his throat, hoping the noise would wake Neal. It didn't.

"Neal?" Peter carefully probed.

Neal was still lost in the world of slumber, and Peter gingerly sat down on the edge of the bed. He made physical contact with what he thought was Neal's knee.

Neal violently flinched beneath his touch, letting out a pained groan, his eyes immediately wide, panicked.

Peter jerked his hand away, lifting both his arms in defense. "Easy, easy. It's just me. I'm sorry, did I hurt you?"

"No," Neal said groggily, quickly concealing the momentary lapse of self-control. "It's... geez. I'm sorry."

Peter's gaze on him was sympathetic. "No need to apologize. Dinner's about ready. Also, you know what this is for." He held up the tracking anklet.

Neal nodded. "Same model as before?"

"Yep, same one."

Neal peeled the blanket away from his left foot. "Knock yourself out."

Neal's ankle was bare beneath the pant leg, and Peter could see an ugly bruise or two near his shin. The skin around it was swollen too. He hesitated. "That looks kinda ugly. How did this happen?"

Neal just shrugged slightly. "I had to disable the anklet somehow."

"It looks like you clubbed it into oblivion, missing your mark a few times."

"As you remember, I wasn't exactly in a position to take precision aim."

"Neal, did the doctors check this out?"

"Yeah. Even x-rayed it. Looks worse than it is."

"Jesus," Peter sighed, a kind of abject horror in his voice. He withdrew his hand. "I can't put the anklet on that."

"Then go for the other leg. That one's only damaged from the knee up."

Peter looked skeptical, reached over and placed the anklet on the nightstand. "You know what? We'll leave it for now."

"Peter..."

He got up from the bed. "Come on, El's gonna be upset if you don't show downstairs within the next five minutes."

"She does know I'm incapacitated, right?"

"It'd be hard to miss, seeing how she mothered you all day. You need any help?"

"No, I'm good."

"All right," Peter said. "Then let's go check out what the lovely Mrs. Burke made for dinner."

+-+-+-+-+

Dinner was delicious. Nothing special, a homemade potato and broccoli casserole. Neal still enjoyed it. You didn't always need the finer things in life to be content. There was easy conversation, Peter talked a little about his day, El had a story or two to tell about the reception she was planning.

It was really quite homey, and Neal felt strangely out of place—an intruder in a domestic still life who wasn't supposed to be there. He realized that this seemed to be a typical evening chez Burke, and there wasn't even a bat of an eyelash to let Neal into their lives and share it with them.

Peter's voice suddenly pulled Neal from his reverie. "You with us?"

Neal shook the distraction from his mind. "Yeah, sorry."

"You zoned out there for a bit. You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," he quickly assured them. "Just..."

"Mind movies?" Elizabeth asked with a mischievous smile.

"What?" Neal laughed. "Yeah, maybe you can call it that."

Elizabeth got up from the table, collecting the dirty dishes. "Dessert?"

Neal waved a hand in front of him. "Thanks, but I'm full."

"Peter?"

"No, me neither. Thanks."

Peter made a movement to get up. "Here, let me help with the cleanup."

"It's fine," Elizabeth replied, placing her hands on her husband's shoulders. "No big deal. You stay."

Peter stayed in his chair, keeping a watchful eye on Neal who was sitting opposite him. The latter shifted in his chair, raising his arms to fold his hands behind his neck. The movement must have pulled at his sore muscles because Neal grimaced, his brow drawing lines of discomfort.

He eased himself out of the position, his hand finding the corner of the cloth napkin on the table.

Peter took all of this in in silence. Neal's eyes flitted to his, and stayed there. Neither man spoke for a long while, until Neal finally asked, "What?"

"I just can't help but wonder if your little errand was worth all this."

"All this what?"

"A concussion, a busted thigh, bruised ribs, a swollen ankle. Need I go on?"

"No, I get the picture."

"So, was it?"

"I would like to think so, yes."

"Tell me again, why were you out there exactly?"

"To help Mozzie out," Neal simply stated.

"With what? Is one of his hiding places out there? I mean, you said he wasn't there, why would you have to go there if it wasn't to rescue him, or, I don't know..."

"Look, he asked me to look after something that was important to him. It's as simple as that."

"Look after something? What in the world could be so important that you'd go there in the middle of a freakin' hurricane?"

Neal flinched. Peter was getting awfully close to Neal having to resort to more than just half-lies. "Look, it doesn't matter now, does it?"

Peter's voice took on a threatening undertone. "Neal, if this is—"

He realized he was being cornered, so he interrupted, "Peter, please stop asking about this, okay?"

Peter's jaw muscles began to work, to clench and unclench. "He asked you to secure the treasure, didn't he?"

This was just so Peter. Always with the easy accusations, the assumptions. Not that he was off this time, but Neal's stomach still churned when he thought about how Peter had unrightfully accused him of stealing the treasure after the warehouse explosion. Sudden anger he hadn't even realized he was still capable of erupted. "Why, Peter? Why does it always have to come back to the damn treasure?"

Peter's volume of voice now matched Neal's. "Oh, come on, Neal. You know why. It's a multi-billion dollar collection of priceless art that was stolen from its rightful owners. And it's my job to find it if it's still out there."

"And is it also your job to jump to conclusions, the way you tend to do when it comes to accusing me of things you don't have proof for, things that, you know, I might be innocent of?"

"I'd say it was a little more than 'jumping to conclusions', Neal."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"You were at my house last week. While I was pulling an all-nighter in the van and Mozzie took Elizabeth out for an exhibition and dinner. Look at me and tell me you didn't break into our home."

Neal met Peter's eyes, his expression steely. He didn't bother concealing the bitterness in his voice. "What? Is this an interrogation now? Besides, you've already made up your mind. I don't know what you need my testimony for. So you might as well save your breath."

With an expression of resolve Neal pushed himself to his feet, fumbling for the crutches. Without another word, he walked away, aiming for the stairs. Peter stared at his back for a long moment, his mouth a thin line. He heard Neal going up the stairs at a hurried pace. A moment later, there was a clatter and a number of swear words. I sounded like one of the crutches had slid down the stairs.

Peter got up from the chair, but Elizabeth was suddenly in front of him, placing a hand on his chest. Her voice was low. "No. Not now, Peter."

Peter's brow furrowed, the anger not quite at bay, but he acquiesced, sitting back down.

Elizabeth walked to the stairs, collecting the fallen crutch. She joined Neal in the middle of the stairs, handing him the crutch without a word. His face was unreadable, stoic.

"Neal," she finally said softly. He just turned away and continued his way into the guestroom.

She tentatively followed at a safe distance, saw from the door how he sat down on the bed with a frustrated, pained grimace, at the same time letting the crutches fall where he'd stood. He drew in a long breath, scrubbing a hand over his face.

She entered the room, closing the door behind her and hesitantly sat down on the bed next to him, not too close to intrude. He was silent for a moment, then said, "Is this where you're gonna say, ‘Told you so?’"

"Would you like me to?"

"No, I think I can hear it loud and clear as it is. And, Elizabeth, I shouldn't even be here. This is your house, and I have no business staying here, taking your time, intruding on your territory."

"Don't be silly, Neal. You're a friend. I would have hated seeing you alone up in your loft, like this."

"I think you're blowing this out of proportion a little bit. It's not like I need a babysitter. I can move around."

"Yeah, maybe," she admitted. "Would you like to go back?"

He sighed, lowering his head. "Maybe tomorrow."

She reached out and her hand touched his arm, squeezing it reassuringly. "Okay. But please know that you don't have to."

"I'm not sure your husband would agree with you."

"Oh, let me handle Peter. I know him. He'll get over it, don't worry."

Neal looked at Elizabeth's hand on his arm. "Thank you," he said.

She got up from the bed. "I'll let you get some rest."

"Thanks," he muttered as she left the room.

Downstairs, Peter was still sitting at the table, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth. Elizabeth came up behind him, rubbing his shoulders, massaging his tense muscles with her thumbs. She felt him relax under her touch, underlined by the satisfied grunt that came over his lips.

"If you're trying to soften my disposition, it's definitely working."

"Good," she said, continuing her ministrations.

"Is he okay?"

"Oh, he'll be fine. But I think you need to give him a break."

"A break? I've given him so many breaks, I've stopped counting. When is it gonna get through that thick skull of his that the time will come where this is all gonna come down on him, when I can't protect him anymore?"

"Honey, I hate to remind you of this, but it's always very black and white for you. Neal—he lives in the gray areas. I think the shading is becoming a lot clearer to him, but change doesn't come overnight."

"Overnight? He's been doing this for almost two years now. And he... Sometimes I think he hasn't made any progress at all. It's like trouble finds him, no matter where he goes. Or maybe he actively looks for it. I don't know."

"I think you know he's made progress. And some of these decisions, they're hard to make."

"What are you saying? I need to give him time? How much more time am I supposed to allow? We're not talking about a misdemeanor. This is big."

"I know," she sighed. "But I know he's asking himself the right questions."

"Did he say something to you?"

"Not in so many words. You know Neal. He would never give anything away unless he has ulterior motive. But if you read between the lines, it's all there."

"’It’ what?"

"That he's trying to decide what to do with his life, that he's starting to see there is something appealing to a life within the confines of the law."

"What is there to decide?" Peter asked exasperatedly.

"See, there's that black and white thing again."

He sighed. "So you're saying that I should do nothing? That I let Neal decide and make him come to me?"

"Pretty much, yes."

"You know it's not that simple."

"No, with Neal it never is. Still, give him some time to recuperate. He's not going anywhere right now."

Peter had to acknowledge that, as hard as it was. He didn't regret bringing Neal to their house, but ever since the warehouse explosion, there had just been that something... that devilish tickle at the back of his mind that would knock on the door every so often. Peter placed his palms on the table.

"Fine," he said resolutely. "He'll get his reprieve. And you... You owe me."

She bent down, kissing his head. "Thank you. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

Peter pursed his lips. Once more it hit him how he'd gotten so lucky. He had the best wife in the world. And some days it felt like he barely deserved it.

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After Elizabeth had gone, Neal let his back sink down on the bed, dragging his legs up onto it with considerable effort. When he turned his head, his eyes fell on the tracker that Peter had left on the nightstand.

This little piece of black plastic, it signified so much. And it would be so easy to just disregard it and live Victor Moreau's life in splendor, together with Mozzie (pardon, Bob) on that Caribbean island. Still, a black, menacing tentacle weaved itself into that particular picture every time he thought about it.

If he left now, went AWOL, he knew he could never come back. And the puzzle pieces were coming together, forming a picture that had a 'Do not want' in there somewhere. It had surprised Neal himself, because it had just always such a natural assumption that the life that came with the tracker would be temporary, that he'd up and leave as soon as he got the chance.

But the more he considered it, the less assurance he could find in the idea. He'd lived that life of a conman on the run. That life that felt like the possibilities were endless, that life that was governed by the next job, the next rush, the next exhilarating surge of adrenaline. But it was also a life that had you constantly look over your shoulder, be on your guard, not trust anyone. It was an exciting life, but when it came down to it, also a lonely one.

Yes, he'd shared that life with Kate, and it had been good then. But eventually, it had driven her away. And then gotten her killed.

And in this life, the one he was leading now, something unexpected had happened. He'd made friends. Not just business partners or mutual allies to fall back on in times of need. True friends—true friends who cared, who took him in, no questions asked, who were concerned about his well-being, his state of mind, his way of life. It was... new. And he had to admit that it also felt good, like something worth fighting for.

Picking up the tracker, he twirled it in his hands. The LED on it glowed a taunting yellow in the dim light. If he put it on, he'd be back on a leash. Two miles—with exceptions. Yes, he'd come to curse the damn thing more than once, but considering the alternatives, it was still much preferred to prison. And, if he searched for an honest answer deep within him, even preferable to a life that meant giving up Neal Caffrey.

He made a decision. His time to live a life on a white-sanded beach with an umbrella-garnished drink in his hand would come soon enough. He sat up and snapped the tracker around his right ankle.

Ironically, the click it made and the beep it emitted as the light turned to green had a strangely liberating ring to it.

Neal leaned back after the deed was done, feeling exhaustion washing over him. He wanted to close his eyes, just for a moment, rest for a few minutes, gather his strength.

The next thing he knew, he opened his eyes groggily to darkness that was only penetrated by faint light floating in through the window. After shaking off the disorientation, he realized it was dark outside and the yellow glow came from the street lights. He fumbled for the lamp on the nightstand, the movement increasing the dull pain in his thigh in its throbbing intensity. He blinked against the harsh, sudden brightness, barely suppressing a moan.

When his eyes had adjusted, he stole a glance at his cell phone. Twenty-eight minutes past midnight. He must have dozed off. Another glance at the nightstand found a note lying there, pinned underneath the orange pill bottle he was all too familiar with. In Elizabeth's elegant writing, the note said, "You might want these close by."

Pain relief sounded good right about now. Someone (presumably Elizabeth) had also leaned the crutches against the nightstand, within easy reach. A pair of his pajamas lay folded on the nearby chair, a duffel bag with fresh clothes on the floor next to it. For a fleeting moment, he gave in to gratefulness for Elizabeth's kind and thoughtful nature. There was definitely something to be said for not being in his loft by himself right now. Trying to gather some resolve, he drew in a breath, clenched his teeth, and inched his legs over the edge of the bed, struggling into an upright position.

He tried to make his way into the bathroom as quietly as he could, hoping it wouldn't wake Peter and Elizabeth. Fishing the pill bottle from his pant pocket, he shook two of them out into his hand and swallowed them down with water from the tap.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror, once again startled by the scrapes and bruises marring his skin. All things considered, he'd been very lucky, but he would be wearing the immediately visible reminders of his accident for a while. With a sigh he took to a semblance of routine by going through the motions of nightly bathroom rituals before making his way back to the guestroom.

Once back in bed, he knew rest wouldn't come easy. He'd just caught a good five hours of sleep, and he was wide awake. It wasn't helping that his leg was sending painful reminders of the assault on his thigh muscle up into his brainstem. In the end, all he could do was wearily hope for the painkillers to kick in sooner rather than later.

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His alarm clock woke Peter the next morning, same way it always did on weekdays—6:15 sharp. Peter groaned as he hit the snooze button, feeling Elizabeth shift next to him. She turned over, smiling tiredly at him. "Morning," she muttered.

Peter emitted another grunt. He'd never been a morning person, and this was just part of their ritual.

Elizabeth peeled herself out of bed, choosing her attire for the day from their wardrobe, giving Peter another few minutes. He turned onto his side, closed his eyes again. Sleep till clung on, fogging his brain, but there was something tingling at the edges of his subconscious. Something was different, something about—

Neal. He was here, in the guestroom, possibly still sleeping.

Peter opened his eyes, trying to kick-start his brain into working mode. He rolled onto his back again, his eyes fixed on the white ceiling. It was too early to think about the day ahead, the challenges it would bring.

Elizabeth joined him again fifteen minutes later. She bent down next to him, giving him a soft kiss on the forehead. "Time to get up, hon."

"Is Neal still sleeping?" he asked her.

"I don't know, I didn't check. I didn't hear anything."

Peter grunted in acknowledgement. El told him, "I'll go get things ready downstairs. Let him get some more sleep. We can wake him for breakfast."

By the time that Peter had showered, shaved and dressed, El had the table set for three in the living room. "You wanna go wake him?" she asked.

"Yeah," Peter replied.

The door to the guestroom opened with a little squeak, and the picture that greeted Peter was just shy of adorable. Neal was tangled in the bed sheets, hair unruly, lips slightly pursed, breathing even, his right foot dangling over the edge of the bed.

The first thing Peter noticed was the anklet around Neal's lower leg. He frowned, trying to remember if he'd had a lapse in memory. But, no, he had clearly left the anklet on the nightstand the evening before. Neal must have put it on himself. Peter wasn't sure what to make of it, but there was surely something positive in his initial reaction.

He edged closer to the bed. "Neal?" he asked tentatively.

He could see Neal's eyelids flickering ever so slightly, but that was the only reaction his verbal command solicited. Peter studied Neal again more closely. It almost looked as if the scrapes and bruises had turned a shade angrier overnight. Neal's cheeks seemed a little flushed, and a disconcerting notion occurred to Peter. Had Neal developed a fever?

Peter's hand found Neal's forehead, relief flooding through him when it felt warm, but not unnaturally so. It was probably just the tossing and turning, the fitful night he assumed Neal had had.

Neal stirred underneath his touch, emitting a soft grunt. Peter withdrew his hand from Neal's head, placing it on his shoulder—careful, as to not cause any unwarranted pain.

"Peter?" Neal blinked up at him.

"Yeah. Sorry to wake you, but we thought maybe you wanted some breakfast."

The noise Neal made sounded much like, "Unh," and Peter couldn't hide a small smile. "You can go back to sleep if you want."

"No," Neal sighed. "It's okay. Just give me a few minutes."

"Take all the time you need."

Peter and Elizabeth were already digging into their cereal by the time Neal joined them, wrapped in a bathrobe but looking well groomed enough to have the suaveness of the usual Neal Caffrey shine through.

"Morning," he greeted them with a bright smile.

"Morning," Elizabeth chirped back, getting up from her chair. "You drink your coffee with milk, right?"

"Black in the morning, thanks," Neal replied.

Elizabeth gave a quick nod. "Black it is."

Peter shoved the box with cereal over to Neal. "All we have is bran flakes." He gave a disapproving frown. Leaning in, he whispered, "El's not real fond of the stuff that actually tastes good."

"I heard that," she chuckled. "Neal, I can make you toast if you like."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Great, he gets toast. I get unsweetened oatmeal or bran flakes."

"You, Peter Burke, are not hobbling around on one leg."

"If that's what it takes to get a decent breakfast in this house, maybe I should shoot myself in the foot."

"Oh, quit whining. Neal? Toast?"

He smiled at her. "No, bran flakes are just fine."

Peter drew a grimace, like Neal was being agreeable on purpose. Neal just shrugged apologetically at Peter. "What? I like bran flakes."

"Yeah, sure you do."

Elizabeth placed a mug of steaming coffee in front of Neal. "So, do you want to stay here today? You know that we love to have you, right?"

Neal shoved another spoonful of flakes into his mouth, chewing them with fervor. "I will be fine at June's house. I can't ask you to stay home another day."

"Well, you don't have to. I was planning to go to the office for a while today. There's some things I need to wrap up there, but the rest of the day, I can work from home. It's no trouble. Really. I'd much rather see you here than in that huge mansion. Besides, didn't you say June was out of town?"

"Yeah, she's visiting her son in Florida."

"See, all the more reason for you to stay with us."

Neal attempted a questioning glance at Peter, picking at his flakes that were getting soggy now.

Peter realized what this was about. After all, they hadn't really talked since last night. "I promise there's not gonna be any more interrogations," he told Neal with an earnestness to his voice.

Neal slowly met his eyes, held his gaze. "No strings attached, huh?"

"Nope."

Elizabeth smiled sweetly at him. "Come on, Neal. Just say yes."

His mouth slowly curved into a smile. "Looks like I don't have much of a choice."

Her responding smile was  mischievously content. "Oh, you never did."

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It wasn't just the next day that Neal stayed at the Burke's house. Elizabeth insisted that he didn't go back until he got rid of the crutches, was more mobile again. In the end, Neal was thankful for all the help, because he had to concede that it felt great to have someone there to make things easier when you were incapacitated. More than he'd care to admit.

Peter had kept his promise and not brought up anything about the treasure again. Conversations had been pleasant, sometimes stimulating and often entertaining.

During the day, when he was left by himself, Neal read or made progress on working his way through the Burkes' DVD collection, frowning at some of the choices ('Little Nicky'? Really?), trying to avoid daytime television as much as possible—with limited success. Peter would give him a file to peruse here and there, but since he was still officially on sick leave, it wasn't anything taxing.

He missed his easel, his painting equipment, because painting always grounded him, let him forget the world around him. It was the one pastime that would let him truly relax—unless it was something that was part of a con and came with a deadline. But even then, he could get lost in the composition of colors, the pure act of creating something beautiful.

At least Mozzie had dropped by, bringing him his sketchpad and some pencils and charcoal. It wasn't the same, drawing while you were sitting in a chair with the pad on a table, but Neal opted for contenting with what he had. At the end of the day, he'd ended up with a finished charcoal drawing of a happily panting Satchmo who'd been so patient to obey Neal's command and sit still long enough for him to at least draw the necessary outlines.

He'd given the drawing to Peter and Elizabeth that night, both of which had huge, admiring smiles on their faces. "An original Caffrey," Peter had marveled.

"Yeah, I even signed it."

"Where do we hang it?" Peter had asked Elizabeth.

In the end, they couldn't agree on a spot, and El concluded that particular argument by saying she'd get it framed and then they could always decide later.

The next day, Peter took Neal for a follow-up appointment at the local clinic. Everything looked good, and since Neal had already started to put weight on the injured leg, he was given the go-ahead to lose the crutches if he felt comfortable enough without them. It was a recommendation Neal all too readily took to.

By the time that Peter and Elizabeth got home that evening, Neal had packed his duffel bag and made up the bed in the guestroom. At dinner, he carefully broached the subject of returning to June's house, and Peter and Elizabeth fully supported his decision.

It was Peter who drove him out to Manhattan, and it was Peter who carried his bag and indulged his slow and laborious ascent up to his loft.

Back in familiar surroundings, Neal paused in one of the dining table chairs, catching his breath. A quick look around, he found that nothing was amiss. Even the patio outside was back to normal, with the boxwoods and furniture in their rightful places.

He watched Peter open the fridge, inspecting the contents.

"Yeah, that thing should be gaping empty," Neal commented.

Peter smiled a wistful smile. "Actually, it's not."

Neal frowned. "Did you...?"

"Not personally, but let's just say I made some inquiries with June's housekeeping staff."

Neal was genuinely touched. "Thank you, Peter. You didn't have to."

"Oh, I know. You can repay me by making sure you keep enough beer in there."

"Deal," Neal said.

Peter looked around. "So, anything else you need?"

"No, I think I'm good, thanks."

Peter sat down in the chair opposite Neal anyway, even though he could probably have easily taken the cue and left. He studied Neal for a short moment.

Neal broke the silence that was getting uncomfortable. "What, do I have something sticking out of my nose or something?"

"No. I'm just wondering... At my house, you put the anklet back on. Why?"

Neal just shrugged. "I figured why delay the inevitable?"

"I think you know there was more to it than that."

Neal said nothing, but they both understood. And it was like nothing more needed to be said on the matter. Still, Peter looked as if he wasn't finished.

"I know I said I wouldn't bring it up again, but, Neal, if this was about the treasure, if you have it, or know where it is..." Peter scrubbed a hand over his chin, feeling the beginnings of a stubble there. "It's like you have this habit of getting tangled up in the deep end, only crying for help when it's too late. You're treading on very dangerous ground, and if this blows up in your face, I can't protect you."

"And I wasn't asking you to."

"No, and God knows why I keep trying, but, Neal, please don't do anything you're going to regret."

"Why, Peter? Why do you care?"

Peter let out an incredulous breath. "Why? Geez, I thought you'd have realized this by now, but I'm your friend. I hate seeing you get hurt."

Neal said nothing, averted his eyes. Guilt was seeping through the cracks, mixed with doubt and a barely tangible hint of shame. He was already caught up in a tangled web of half-truths and purposeful omissions now, a web that had Peter on one side and Mozzie on the other. And both were pulling at him with equal force.

Peter's voice pulled him from his reverie. "Neal, can you promise me something?"

"What?"

"That whatever it is you're planning, you're gonna think about it—and think hard about it? About the repercussions, the collateral damage."

"What do you mean?" Neal asked.

"Oh, come on. You must realize that it's not just you anymore. I'm in this too. You're more than just my CI. I keep sticking my neck out for you. You think I will walk away clean from this if it turns out you stole the treasure and hid it all this time?"

"I didn't steal the treasure," Neal asserted once more.

"And maybe you didn't, hopefully you didn't, but if you know where it is, then I swear to God, Neal, you better not mess this up."

It was sound advice at any rate, and Neal had no intention of messing this up. Of course he was already well engulfed in the deep end, and he knew it. However, he hoped it wasn't too late to swim back to more shallow waters. As to how or when that would happen, he had no idea.

Neal sighed, leaning back in the chair, his face carefully neutral. What was there to say without incriminating himself? "I don't have any intention of messing this up," he finally said.

"Maybe not, but we both know your intentions haven't always led to the most favorable outcomes. I'm just gonna say this: Don't let yourself get buried under anything heavier than that crane. Because I think it was pretty much my maximum hoisting capacity."

"Yeah, I get that." And he did, but then Mozzie appeared in front of his mind's eye, along with a Degas, a Rembrandt, a Manet, and countless other masterpieces stashed away in a Manhattan warehouse. He pushed the images aside. Looking up, he studied a rarely thoughtful looking Peter.

"Thank you," Neal said, and the sincerity in his tone was loud. "You probably saved my life out there."

"Yeah, I probably did." A small, mischievous grin worked its way into Peter's features. "You know what? That makes me 3 and 0."

"Not quite. 3 and 1, if I recall correctly. The poisoned Armagnac?"

"Oh yeah, how could I forget?"

Peter got up from the chair and walked closer to Neal. He gave him a good natured pat on the shoulder. "Let's keep those scores where they are. You good on your own, got everything you need?"

Neal nodded. "Yeah, I'll be fine. No doubt Moz will drop by later. I have a feeling he's going to want to rope me into a game of Parcheesi, now that June is out of town."

Peter let out a chuckle. "Well, I guess there could be worse things than that."

"There could be."

"Okay," Peter moved towards the door. "Guess I'll be going then. I don't wanna see you in the office for at least another three days."

"Aye, sir," Neal said mockingly.

"I'm serious, Neal."

"I know. But, you know, if you wanna drop off a few case files..."

Peter smiled. "Okay, I'll think about it."

The door closed behind him with a soft click, and Neal was left staring at it. He gingerly stretched out his injured leg, feeling the tug of the sore muscle that hovered just at the edge of pain.

This had surely been a lesson—if not in humility, then in judgment. He'd known for a long time that he couldn't hold off indefinitely on making a decision. Leave or stay, that's what it came down to. Neal Caffrey or Victor Moreau. And right now, even with the constraints and inconveniences, the life of Neal Caffrey didn't look all that unappealing.

It wasn't just that, however. If he chose Victor Moreau, Neal Caffrey would die. Forever. There'd be no coming back—ever.

Was he ready for that?

It didn't take long for the answer to come.

No.

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THE END.